


Dandelion in Snow

by riana_hawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blue-Purple Hawke, Epistolary, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-03-26 20:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riana_hawke/pseuds/riana_hawke
Summary: Hawke and Fenris have been living under assumed names in a town near the Waking Sea, raising their son while continuing with the red lyrium investigation. But the rumors and travelers’ stories of the Mage-Templar War are growing more frequent. Then comes the faint green tinge across the southern sky, and news of disaster at the Conclave. When Varric contacts Hawke, she and Fenris stay up talking late into the night. She packs her bag the next morning. Her first letter from Skyhold arrives tied to a raven’s leg.(Edited 11/28/2018)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke’s explanation in DA:I for why she showed up alone, without Fenris, just didn’t make sense. So I’ve tried out some other ideas.
> 
> Comments/critiques/suggestions are welcome! I'd really appreciate any feedback you want to give. :)

 

[A small square of paper sealed with dark blue wax in an abstract bird design. The words are sloping but legible, and splotched where the note was folded before the ink had dried.]

F,

I arrived safely at Skyhold this morning. It’s breathtaking. I mean that literally, too. The air’s quite thin here! At least until you enter the keep. I must ask how they get all these delicate plants to grow so high up in the mountains.

We can discuss that later, though. From what I gather so far, our plan should be viable, so let’s move forward with it. The Inquisition is much better organized than we’d assumed, although it can seem like the Herald (now the Inquisitor) and her advisors are herding cats, especially when it comes to dealing with the Orlesian army and nobility. I suspect that will boil over very soon. But this place will be safe. Everything I’ve seen so far tells me that this fortress is nothing like Haven. It’s built on an ancient site and there’s elven magic protecting it, although the senior mages aren’t quite sure how it works. That might not be too great a comfort to you, but given what we’re facing these days, we’ll need it. Please hurry.

H

 

* * *

 

[Written in a neat, precise hand, with most of the misspellings crossed out and self-corrected. The wax seal is sunset red and imprinted with the Amell crest.]

Hawke,

Marcus and I just ate breakfast with Cassandra on the steps of the battlements. She and I will be leading sword drills soon in the Nevarran style, so this will have to be [the pen stroke veers off in a jagged line here, as if knocked aside] Marcus is very excited that I am writing to you. He can barely contain himself. He wants to know if you are going to swim in the lake like a fish -- I haven’t told him it’s a flooded village. He suggests that you turn yourself into a purple salmon, because mage fish should look special, apparently. You remember his recent obsession with anything that has fins? I cannot wait for him to pick something else.

I would have liked for Inquisitor Cadash to join us at the training grounds. I spent more time with her after you left for Crestwood and before she joined you. She strikes me as an extraordinary woman who is good at passing herself off as nobody in particular. I asked a few cautious questions about her life as a spy in the Carta when we met at the tavern one night for diamondback with Sera and The Iron Bull. She knew a good deal about me already; Varric told her a little, and I the rest. I was hesitant, but Sebastian's advice had been on my mind. And after that, it seemed only fair that we level the field. The others were curious as well, and about me, seeing as we’ve only known each other a week.

Hawke, I confess that although I have enjoyed their company so far, it makes me uneasy to discuss personal matters with so many unfamiliar people. I haven't entirely succeeded at hiding it. Yesterday afternoon Marcus climbed onto my lap and propped up the corners of my mouth with his fingers. He told me not to be sad. At dinner he stuffed a handful of clover and pebbles into my pocket and watched for my reaction. I smiled. So did he. It’s still so strange to see my own eyes staring up at me from his round little face.

I’ve asked Flissa to take Marcus for an hour or two after lunch so that I can go for a walk on the battlements and have some space to think. I would bring him along to spot the valleys between the mountains, but given how he likes to play chasing games and lacks a healthy fear of heights, I think he’s best left at ground level or inside four walls.

Write back soon. The Spymaster will send this with one of her ravens, as agreed. It knows the way home. I hope the situation in Crestwood is less dire than you feared.

You’re in my thoughts, amata. Two days together was not enough.

Yours,

Fenris

[There are small fingerprint smudges below, next to a crude letter that might be “M”]

 

* * *

 

Hello you two!

I’ve missed you terribly. I hope all is well at Skyhold. Crestwood is damp and gloomy and I’ve spent most of my time here scuttling through caves like one of the giant spiders that lives in them. Nasty things. Marcus, did you know your father and I used to run into them on the other shore, near Kirkwall? Remember, if you ever stumble across a cave, don’t go in unless you’re properly armed.

We captured Caer Bronach from the bandits last night, so now we get to eat decent meals and sleep indoors, near actual fireplaces instead of a campfire that sneezes itself out every ten minutes. Lady Cadash has been assisting the townspeople with their alarming array of problems, and after we met up with the Warden, I offered to lend a hand. Much rather be doing something useful than sitting around twiddling my thumbs! I’m heading out soonish with Sera to fight a wyvern that’s been attacking the townspeople. Wyverns are the small colorful dragons from the picture book Uncle Varric gave you, Marcus. I haven’t had an opportunity to try the fish spell you suggested, but they do require some creativity to track down, so we’ll see. If you’ve behaved yourself I’ll tell you some new stories once I get back.

As I mentioned, the Inquisitor is busy sorting out some things with the lake, but when she’s finished the whole party will return to Skyhold to recuperate. Unfortunately it’s to be a short visit, since we’ll have to continue on to the Western Approach. But in any case, we should be arriving at the gates within a week! I can’t wait to see you.

Fenris: there’s been some trouble with the Grey Wardens. I’ll tell you more in person, but essentially it’s Corypheus’ doing. Yet again. Once I leave Skyhold I may not be back for a while. Bit miserable for all of us, but we’ll manage. I hope you’ve found ways to get some peace and quiet when you need it, and that fewer of the people there are strangers to you now. You seemed to get on well with Bull’s Chargers, I thought? When I took Marcus up to bed you were on your third arm-wrestling match. You never told me how many rounds you went! You know, whenever we’re apart I start to miss the oddest things about you. Like how you’ve always got a handkerchief to wipe Marcus’ nose, or his eyes if he’s burst into tears after dropping his favorite rock out the window. (Is he still hoping that you’ll find Frederick? We searched the courtyard pretty thoroughly.) Or the way you casually lean one elbow on the table while eating, not really taking part in the conversation except for your skeptical glances. And then there’s that gorgeous haircut Morris the quartermaster gave you. Now that would make for a strange ballad. Maybe I could annoy you with it once I get back?

All my love,

Hawke


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some brooding, and unexpected friendship (or not). And then more brooding.

Hawke,

It’s late. Marcus has been asleep for hours. I tried reading but the words sat dully on the page. Then I swore I heard your laughter, faintly. I imagined you waving good night to Varric and the others and walking back from the campfire to your tent, then shaking the sand out of your boots. In every part of our room I saw phantoms of you. I saw you tuck Marcus’ foot under his blanket, fold your clothes on top of the dresser, and braid your hair as you crossed from the mirror to our bed. You beckoned to me. As I stood to join you, a cold gust of wind blew out the candle on the desk. When I looked back you were gone and the room was filled with shadows. I had to leave. I could not bear it.

I ended up in the wine cellar. The selection is still pathetic, but I found a few acceptable vintages in the last supply shipment. I chose a smoky Serault red and climbed back up, thinking at first that I would go to the stone gazebo in the garden. In the Great Hall I saw a sliver of light coming from the door to the Ambassador’s office. I had rarely spoken with her before, but something made me knock and ask if she cared to share the bottle. She did. I had not expected that.

We drank in silence at first. I would have been content to continue that way, but after the first glass she commented that the wine was well-chosen. Her family owns several vineyards in Antiva, the names of which I recognized. She keeps a selection in the Inquisitor’s private stash. I had wondered about that locked box in the cellar. She suggested that when you and Lady Cadash return, we should open a bottle or two to celebrate, perhaps the Finca Herrera reserve from 9:07 and one of the Abadia de la Rosas. I laughed and told her you prefer the kind of liquor made in bathtubs. That only made her more determined to convert you. The decanter of brandy in her side cabinet might be to your tastes.

It was a pleasant conversation, and much-needed for both of us. I’m looking forward to the chess match Lady Josephine has fit into her schedule tomorrow afternoon.

In other news, I have begun to avoid Solas. Yesterday he approached me as I was chopping wood and asked about my life and my lyrium markings. I was unsettled -- it was as if he were looking for further information to build on what he already knew, or to contradict it, although he did not offer a clear indication of what that might be. As of now, I do not intend to put such questions to him in return and learn why he's taken an interest in me. His manner was patronizing, and he stirred painful memories. I will not be pitied, and I will not be used. I answered him calmly until he decided he had heard enough and let me be.

This afternoon I helped organize the infirmary, now that it’s been moved to a permanent building. It was a challenge for the medics and me to find tasks suited to Marcus so he wouldn’t be underfoot. At first he was eager to carry the linens I'd folded over to the shelf, but he became bored with it after a time and decided to follow us around while disguised as a very small ghost. Once we’d finished, he and I worked on a puzzle together. It came in a recent pile of gifts from an overeager Orlesian nobleman. His mask was in poor taste, but the puzzle is good. A village scene from the Ylenn Basin. I should like to see the walnut groves for myself someday, if you would come with me.

The candle is burning low and I’ve reached the end of my last sheet of paper. Be safe, and slay some Venatori for me.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

[The paper is worn thin from frequent folding and is splattered in a few spots. A small note in the margins reads: “Sorry about the stew.”]

Dear Fenris,

Well, here we are in the Western Approach, and as you guessed, my boots are full of sand. Give Marcus a big hug and a kiss for me. I miss our little bee. I don’t have too much news that would be appropriate for him to hear about, so just mention that I saw a high dragon the other day. You can add some bits about how she swooped majestically and knocked our hats and scarves off with her wingbeats. Both of which are true! We also ran for cover and spent about an hour crouching beneath a rock ledge.

I’m sitting in my tent right now with my lunch. The others are being more sociable and have crowded together in the other tents. The sun is too harsh for us to go out, so we’ve time to doze, play cards, spread gossip, and the like. After that, we pack up and continue on to Adamant Fortress. I’m told it sits right on the edge of the Abyssal Rift. Quite the view.

By the time you get this letter, word will have reached Skyhold about what happened yesterday at the Tevinter ritual tower. My version of it would involve a few well-placed expletives. In fact, that is more or less my entire vocabulary these days, at least inside my head. I know you’ve told me to stop blaming myself for everything, but what else am I supposed to do, prance about like I didn’t accidentally unleash an ancient magister who wants to rip the sky to tiny pieces? I can barely sleep at night. Whenever I do get some rest, there's hardly any time between when I wake up and when the nausea hits me.

We’re just days away from a major battle and I need to prepare, I’ve been doing nothing but preparing, but Fenris love, I’m exhausted, and whenever I stop to think for too long I just start slicing myself to bits again. That's not doing anyone any good. I can’t afford to be like I was in Kirkwall ever again. And even if I did want to sink into a good long wallow, I don’t have the time or space for it.

Maybe I'll just go join the others for now. Plaster on a smile and boost morale a little. Some of the soldiers are younger than we were when we first met. Can you believe how long ago that was? Eleven years. At this point I can’t imagine life without you. What if one of the scouts or medics here has met someone like that through the Inquisition? Given the massive, well, army of people involved, it’s bound to have happened at least once. Might end up being fodder for Varric’s next book series. Speaking of which, did you know I once spotted Cassandra reading Varric’s absolute bottom of the barrel. Swords & Shields, that was the one. You used the first volume for reading practice when we were staying in Ostwick, didn’t you. You’d sigh with disgust after the most badly written parts, and then you’d turn the page and keep going to learn what happened. Varric's storytelling plus your tireless dedication! A formidable match.

This isn’t working. I’m still shoveling stew into my mouth and thinking about all my failures, and about two people who are conspicuously absent from this grit-covered tent in the middle of nowhere. I hope that you are plagued with Orlesian noblemen bringing gifts that can keep Marcus entertained and give you more ideas for travel plans. Chess with Ambassador Montilyet sounds lovely -- and yes, I cannot wait for the Antivan wine party when we return. Shocking! But in the meantime, Fen, please keep finding people like that. I don’t like the thought of you drinking alone again.

There are about a hundred more things I’d like to talk about with you, but that will be much easier to do in person. I almost wish you’d come to fight alongside me and the Inquisitor, like you wanted, but ultimately I’m glad you changed your mind.

After we deal with this nonsense at Adamant I’m looking forward to heading straight back to Skyhold and thoroughly enjoying your company. Maybe we can stay on, if we’re still needed. I certainly feel like we have more to offer. The longer I'm out here, the more I feel that our previous efforts weren't anywhere close to enough. Will they ever be?

Questions without answers. Well, now that we’re out of the shadows, we might as well stand united with the rest of the Inquisition. That’ll show Coryphy-tit. Somehow. If that makes any sense. Maker, I’m tired.

Love, as always,

Hawke

 

* * *

 

[Several weeks pass without correspondence. A stack of paper sits on the desk in a second-storey guest room at Skyhold, next to a box of writing supplies and weighted by a rock painted with wobbly strokes of yellow, red, and green. When the narrow windows are opened, a light breeze ruffles the papers. The only other sounds are birdsong and a conversation in two voices.]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke still wants to become a dragon. She’s got a pretty long to-do list, but it’s on there. 
> 
> She calls her son “little bee” because of a birthmark on his shoulder.
> 
> I have to restrain myself from tweaking the first chapter any more. Sorry to anyone who read it right after I posted. @_@;;


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke in Serault!  
> (Did anyone else get really into The Last Court...?)

[Written on marbled stationery in rich black ink.]

Dear Fenris,

I'm safe. I'm sure you’ve already heard that from Varric, probably in person, since by now the rest of the Inquisition should be back at Skyhold. But here you have it, confirmation written in my own hand. I'm safe, and thinking of you, and am doing about as well as I could under the circumstances. I’ve kept stuffing my feelings into a trunk and telling myself there’s nothing to do now except fulfill my responsibilities. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened, and about Stroud.

Hmm. I'll put it this way. Compared to my mindset now, we might as well have been preparing for a tea party with Corypheus before. Although now that I think of it, if flaming trebuchets don't work, maybe we could subject him to a round of Marcus arranging his toys and tea set as he rambles on with a story only he can understand. Let's see how well Corypheus withstands our little bee’s death glare when he breaks with table etiquette.

I’m writing this in my guest chamber at the chateau of the Marquise of Serault, Anne-Cordelia. She welcomed us yesterday on our journey to Weisshaupt with a filling meal and minimal questions. True to her reputation, she also invited us to join her on a wild boar hunt. I'm the only one who's chosen to stay behind. We’re leaving tomorrow, and I’ve heard some intriguing things about Serault that I'd rather investigate alone.

But it’s early still. I sat down to write this right after I hauled myself up at sunrise. The Marquise has lent me her own clothing, a bit plain by Orlesian standards but extremely well-made. I think the Inquisitor would take an interest -- her parents were tailors, weren’t they? Luckily, the Marquise and I are of a size and I can still fit into a pair of trousers. By which I mean I’m pregnant.

I just found out last night. Mme. Cauchoise, the senior lady-in-waiting who knocked on my door last night before dinner, looked at me quite shrewdly when I replied that yes, I’d likely need some extra linens, since my cycle had stopped due to stress but who knows, it might get ideas once I’ve gotten a proper rest, and I didn’t want to bloody the sheets. I can’t say I enjoyed how she poked and prodded and made me piss into a cup, but according to her young niece (who was feigning boredom) she trained as a midwife under her mother and has delivered most of the servants' babies. I gather that her niece is being dragged along to start her own training in that line of work. So, if she’s judged correctly, I’m three months along, give or take a few weeks. That means I was already pregnant before leaving for Skyhold.

Well, Fen, we seem to have remarkably poor timing when it comes to babies. We'd started to give up on our plans for this one, and then we opened Varric's letter and tossed those hopes entirely out the window. At least this time around we have a home to go back to, where we can stay beyond when I’m due, at the end of summer. No need to travel in search of work and a place to hide from the Templars. That was almost too much, even for us. Marcus is a tough little one, isn’t he?

I’m feeling quite calm about all this. Not serene, exactly [in the margin: "When I got back to my room last night, I had to shut the door and lean against it as a ludicrous grin spread across my face"], but not out of control, either. Very much under control, in fact. Nobody else knows yet and I don't plan on spreading the news. I don’t want to be treated any differently, like I’m fragile or special or some other eye-rolling nonsense. Let’s just get on with it. I remember how to do those healing magic checkups that I did when I was carrying Marcus. If I need to take a break on the road, I’ll find an excuse.

Mme. Cauchoise and her niece insisted I join them for hot cider in a quieter wing of the kitchens after dinner, so they could share the results without being overheard. They also shared some hilarious stories about their own family and described the recent goings-on in Serault. I told them all about you and Marcus, and my work at the clinic and as a handywoman for hire, at which point they asked if I could help the groundskeeper repair some structural damage to the stables. The snowfall has been unusually heavy this year and the wooden parts of the building haven’t taken it too well. Well, you know me. It shouldn't be any trouble, and they seemed quite pleased to hear it. I’ve found myself wishing our party could spend more time here before continuing on to the north.

The bed in my guest room has a soft feather mattress and is covered in beautifully woven blankets. Despite the luxury, I couldn’t get comfortable last night. It was strange to not have to deal with a sweaty overheated leg tangle or your grumbling about your arm going numb. Or to turn over to a heap of pillows instead of the charming sight of you asleep with your mouth hanging open. Somehow it was easier out in the field, when “bed” meant “lumpy one-person cot” and “bath” meant “lukewarm bucket of water and a rag.” Speaking of which, there was a tub of hot water filled with herbs and petals and a lit fireplace waiting when I returned from the kitchens. It was glorious. When I closed my eyes, I drifted back to the night you staggered through the gates of Skyhold. You would’ve fallen asleep in that tub if I hadn’t been there to give you a massage. At first I really did think you were slipping into a dream when you started mumbling about the snowstorm and the bear in the cavern. Maker's breath, still gives me chills to think about it. Let's make sure we travel in a larger group when we go home, and in warmer weather.

I should probably go down to breakfast now. Based on last night’s dinner, I have high expectations. I’ll send another letter before we leave tomorrow. One of Leliana’s ravens has a perch in the Marquise’s office.

Love you,

Hawke

 

* * *

 

[Scrawled hastily on the same stationery, as if the words can’t come out fast enough.]

Dear Fenris,

It’s the middle of the night and my hair is full of twigs. And leaf bits. My teeth have finally stopped chattering, as I’m back in my room and wrapped up in a heavy wool coverlet.

Right. How do I explain this? It started out with a pleasant morning repairing the stables. A straightforward job, affable company, felt good to have a set of tools back in my hands, you know. After changing out of the work apron I was lent, I ate lunch in the shade with the stablehands. Then I spent the afternoon wandering the town. I was even able to convince the guards to let me into the Glassworks, and had a run-in with a woman who I'm almost certain is an outlaw hiding in plain sight. And that's just the beginning of what I have to tell you about all that, so put it into your pocket and remind me later. The hunting party returned after midday with deer and wild boar slung across their horses. The banquet was raucous and cathartic. I couldn’t keep up with their energy for long, though, and so I excused myself and settled into a book of local lore with a mug of tea. I managed to crawl into bed while halfway asleep.

Only a few hours passed before I woke up in a cold sweat. I had been dreaming of an enormous spider demon lit by a green Fade sky, and an argument with Stroud. But as he turned to charge the creature, he snapped back and his face opened wide and released a thick flooding cloud of _it should have been you who died you selfish bitch demonraiser coward you destroy everything you touch they will obliterate you_ as I choked and gasped.

The ceiling is painted with a fresco of stars and mythical beings. All I could see at the time was the glint of gold paint in the moonlight. I’ve gotten used to finding your arms around me after jolting awake in the night, and talking you down from a panic when a night terror won’t let go of you. Facing this alone was somehow more frightening than any battle I’ve ever fought. My eyes stung. I was almost angry with myself for not being able to cry. It’s been so long, Fen. Some days it’s like I’ve been hollowed out, with nothing left to give, or show, or feel. I just don’t know anymore.

So I sat there for a while. I wrapped and unwrapped your red cloth band around my palm and drank the dregs of my tea. I got up and paced the room, feeling this strange nervous energy building up in my throat. It was like that night you described earlier, when you felt that you had to get out of the room and push it all away. I threw on some clothes, lit a lantern, and walked straight out the door and down the spiraling stone staircase.

The tamer edge of the Tirashan Forest isn’t far from here. I crept past the sleeping night guard on the Green Bridge and followed a path that wound away from the river and into the trees. I wandered for a while with my thoughts, listening to the bullfrogs and the cry of a falcon and munching an apple I’d picked from one of the trees that were almost hiding between the pines and spruces. It was odd that the apple trees weren't bare this time of year, but I didn't get a sense that anything was "off." Meaning magic that shouldn't be tampered with. What I saw later has me questioning that, but I'm still convinced it wasn't dangerous. So, as I said, my hunger won out and I picked an apple. It was crisp and tart, and it made me think of you and Marcus, picking the autumn harvest from the trees near our home.

Eventually, one train of thought or another led me to start worrying about all the ways that my current pregnancy could end badly. But that wasn’t doing anyone any good. So I forced myself to cheer up with a list of things to look forward to. Some of these will sound familiar to you, no doubt. One: amazing hair, when I get the chance to wash and comb it. Two: constant snacking. Three: being consumed by single-target lust about halfway through. Four: a convenient resting spot for books, teacups, small animals, possibly toddlers, etc. As I was thinking of thing number five, I heard rustling and a rhythmic jingling sound from far off to my right.

Of course I had to follow it. When I drew closer I caught sight of a stone altar covered in vines and with candles fixed around its base. I ended up hiding among the branches of a pine tree, which explains the needles crunching in my smallclothes. But as the Chantry sisters in wooden masks began to carry out their rites, offering a deer to an ancient statue of a huntress -- the Masked Andraste, that's what I've heard she's called -- I slipped away. All right, I stumbled and got tangled up and soaked with snow, but I was quiet about it. As curious as I was about the older ways the sisters follow alongside the Chantry's dogma, this seemed to be invite-only. So, I wandered back through the forest, and when I sighted the bridge up ahead, at long last, I suddenly felt something change. I can't describe it properly. It was the trees, and the way the wind gusted through them...

Fen, I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to get back to sleep. Maybe I’ll clean myself up and wait until morning, then try to act like I'm well-rested. I will saunter down to breakfast, take a big bite out of a pastry, and clap Amund on the back and make a stupid joke. Perfect. You’ve met Amund, haven’t you? Big, quiet Avvar shaman? He's grown more relaxed over the past week, which might be because we’re all a long way from home here, not just him. He and Thornton (you remember -- lean, human archer with a wide-brimmed hat?) are quite friendly now. Thornton has these incredible stories from his days scouting behind enemy lines in the Free Marches. We also had a keen conversation the other day about life near the Waking Sea. He seemed a bit pensive afterward, as we threaded along a woodland path.

You should buy them a round at the tavern once we’re back at Skyhold! I’ll just politely excuse myself since I’ll have heard everything ten times already by that point. We’ve been getting very well-acquainted with one other on the road. They even know about how Carver used to stuff candies down his shirt at the market when Mother wasn’t looking. I told them that story because the Abbess said he’d stayed here last year as a guest of the Marquise. He was injured while on Grey Warden business and they patched him up. Makes me realize how much I miss my little brother. I know he tests your patience, Maker knows he tests mine, but I really do think we should get ahold of him for next Wintersend if the Wardens allow him the time off. He needs that. Marcus adores him. And haven't we been wanting to go to Jader and see some plays together? We'd finally have an excuse for that trip, now that he's settled into the headquarters there.

I'll sign off here for now. Please write back straightaway, so you’ll have a chance of reaching me at Weisshaupt. Give Marcus a cuddle for me. Lots of cuddles. I’m bringing him a wooden fawn figurine I found in the marketplace today. It’s smaller than the palm of my hand and painted with leaves and vines in a dozen colors. For you, a surprise that I am definitely not going to hint at, and a book of Serault recipes for us to try out. The pastries here are truly delicious. Do you think they'd pair well with that local red you drank with Ambassador Montilyet? Somehow I feel like Wine For Breakfast is as close as you can get to parodying both of us at once.

Love, your dark-haired

Hawke

 

* * *

 

Fen,

Just wanted to send you and Marcus a quick hello from the road to Weisshaupt. We’re crossing the Hunterhorn Mountains. I hadn’t imagined I would ever see a place higher or more desolate than the Frostbacks. The thick ice and gusts of snowy wind have slowed us down. Even with these wool gloves, my fingers are burning with cold. They’re so stiff I can barely hold a pencil properly. Please excuse my terrible handwriting.

This morning we went single-file through a pass that looked as if it had been sliced into the mountain. I was preoccupied with adjusting the bundles on my horse as we edged out the other side. Then Tamar grabbed my arm and told me to look east. I followed the line of her finger to where the rock face changed colors in one spot, right above the crumbling remains of a path trailing downward, maybe half a day’s journey from where we stood. When I strained my eyes, I could make out the shadows of heavy columns and geometric carvings. The gates of Kal-Sharok. The lost dwarven thaig.

As much as I shudder at the thought of ever re-entering the Deep Roads, I’ve spent the rest of the day pondering what exactly is happening behind that enormous slab of stone. I read once that the thaig was overrun in the First Blight after being abandoned by Orzammar in its hour of need. It’s been a thousand years since, but what if there are survivors? Andraste’s arse, have they been sealed off this whole time? It boggles the mind, Fenris. I’ve got about ten tracks of wild speculation running through my head. Well, I suppose that’s one more thing to ask about at Skyhold. There has to be a way to find out.

 I've just realized you haven't met Tamar. My mention of her back there must have left you scratching your head. She was a member of the cult at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You know, the ones who attacked the Hero of Ferelden - or the other way around, from what she's told me. She spent ages fighting the Chantry until they dragged her down into Haven, which is where the Inquisition found her, all alone in a damp prison cell. It's hard to imagine them subduing her in the first place. She looks formidable even after she's taken off her armor and washed off her black lipstick and face paint. In fact, she seems to make most people want to hide beneath the nearest upturnable basket. I rather like that. She takes no-nonsense about as far as it can go.

Tamar’s also been our mountain trekking expert, and I thoroughly enjoyed our recent discussion about dragons. I had bet on her knowing interesting things about their behavior, seeing as she's a reaver who drinks their blood and used to worship one. Maybe she still does. I’m unsure how to broach that particular subject.

That’s Scout Foulon calling us to dinner. She’s trying to get us excited about salted mutton stewed with beans and stale bread. We're hungry enough that it's working. Alenne, which is what we all call her by now, is the youngest of us, no more than twenty, and the last to complain or stare at her feet as we trudge along. She’s from a human family in the countryside near Arlesans. This time last year, she was harvesting leeks. She shoulders her pack the same way my father used to carry bundles of firewood.

We’re getting down to the rind of the impractically large but delicious wheel of cheese she and Neria (Dalish emissary from the Ralaferin clan, used to be their First, and not much older than Alenne) bought in the last village we passed through. I know I should be eating more, but we’re on rations for the time being and I still don’t think it’s wise to tell anyone about the situation under my tunic. Everything’s been fine so far. Although I’ve had to stop myself from touching my belly when the others are around. It's starting to swell beyond the point where it can be explained away as bloating. Had a very close call the other day when we were entering the foothills and found a stream to bathe in. Neria only meant to be helpful, but I really wish she hadn't noticed that I forgot my towel. Well. Anyway. At least she took the hint and left it on a tree branch.

So much for that quick hello, hm?

Kisses,

H

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's gotten involved in construction/renovation projects since Lothering, so that side quest at the stables was a delight. Before coming to Skyhold, she was helping to fix up a creaky old mill just outside their town.
> 
> Fenris, Marcus, Blackwall, and Scout Harding had, uh, an interesting time on the last leg of the journey to Skyhold. Early winter + high mountains + constant snowfall + edging along a chasm with a pack pony in tow = displeased Tevinter elf (who is completely okay with awkward silences). Marcus had been dressed in every item of clothing he owned, and spent most of the trip as a toasty little burrito inside his dad’s cloak. One night, they made a game out of getting the kindling to light when they found shelter in a cave. Which wasn’t as empty as they had thought it was.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think so far! :) I'm still tinkering around with the writing style, and am definitely open to comments/critiques.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Skyhold Courier, direct to your, er, fortress-step. (Keep-step? Drawbridge-step? I give up.) 
> 
> Fenris’s thoughts are a little… disjointed. For now.
> 
> This one’s a two-parter, with the rest coming next week.

 

[A hefty packet of letters, tied with twine and placed on the desk in a guest room at the Grey Warden headquarters.]

 

Hawke,

Varric’s letter came today. Thank the Maker you’re alive.

I can tell Varric was withholding details from me, and so I will refrain from murdering him when he steps through the gates.

We were fools for answering his letter. He could have kept our location a secret and let us continue to do our part without endangering our lives. We had such ideas about what we could do. Wrongs we could right, scores we could settle. And now this.

After all you’ve done for each other, all those years that you called him a friend, he gave you up to the Inquisition, and they threw you into the maw of the abyss like a living sacrifice.

I haven’t felt this angry in a very long time.

Hawke.

Without you, I [the rest of the sentence has been crossed out repeatedly]

Apologies. You have enough to think about without having to consider that.

I’ve so often burdened you. Such poor repayment for all the happiness you’ve brought me, the change you’ve wrought in my life, such as I’d never imagined possible. You ask for so little. Always giving, so rarely taking. And then you nearly --

Marcus knows nothing about what’s happened. He is well. Flissa has been teaching him about the herbs and flowers in the garden. Sometimes I join them.

He’s been asking about where you are and when you’re coming back. I’ve been trying to give him careful but honest answers and cheer him up as best I can.

Please write to us soon.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

I still cannot comprehend that you went bodily into the Fade and almost stayed behind to save the Inquisitor and her companions. I feel as strongly as you do about defeating Corypheus, but your death wouldn’t -- you don’t have to -- I don’t have the words for how senseless it would be for you to die in the process. The very thought of it breaks me. How could you --

I’ve lit a candle for Stroud at the shrine to Andraste. I visit in the evenings and pray. He did not deserve this fate, either. I will never be able to repay him for taking your place, but this was the only way I could think to start.

Lady Cadash's party arrived yesterday. I kept my promise. Varric remains in one piece, although he has avoided me after our encounter in the main courtyard. It involved him being slammed against a supply cart, which came close to toppling over from the impact. Cassandra tried to drag me off him as Lady Cadash shouted at me to stop. I don’t know how long it took before something snapped. It was as if I was part of the crowd for the briefest of moments, watching myself, watching someone else’s creation. It stole the breath from my lungs – the thought that our son might see me like this. A different man from his father. A source of fear, rather than love.

My markings faded, and I sank to my knees as Varric stumbled away, supported by Cassandra. I couldn't stand up again. People were whispering, standing at a distance, too afraid to approach. I was too far gone to care. I buried my face in my hands and wept.

Lady Cadash found me afterward. Long afterward, as I was sitting with Marcus in the upper reaches of the Herald’s Rest. She moves so quietly that I didn’t even notice her until she tapped the table and slid onto the opposite bench.

She had brought a backgammon board with her. She taught Marcus the rules, or at least attempted to, and they played a few turns as I continued cutting up his roast chicken with turnips. We only spoke after Marcus had grown restless and turned his attention back to his dinner.

Our conversation was brief. She said she couldn’t understand the full extent of what I was feeling, but could imagine what she would do if Josephine ever came close to being harmed. She was silent for a moment after that. It's difficult to describe the look that crossed her face. I can only say that it was quickly covered up. Perhaps a skill she learned as a Carta spy and has found difficult to discard. She then reminded me of who was truly to blame for what happened, and told me how you fought like nobody she’d ever seen, both at Adamant and in the Fade. I said very little in response, but was unable to conceal my pride at her latter comments. It may have shown as what you call my cryptic smile.

Lady Cadash -- she's asked me to call her Danra, although I am not feeling particularly familiar with her these days -- followed this by saying that she understands if we no longer want to openly work with the Inquisition. We could leave Skyhold and assist in the area near our home, or simply quit, if we wished. I told her I had made no firm decisions yet, and would not until you and I had discussed it in person. But no, we would not be withdrawing. She seemed relieved to hear that.

Before she left, she asked me to go talk to Varric.

By that point, Marcus had begun to swirl the backgammon pieces in circles around the board, staining them with chicken grease. He hummed to himself in that way he does when he’s quietly contented. The same way that you do. I watched him, and stroked his hair, and considered.

I will go to Varric tonight. I don’t know what will come of it. Whether I will apologize for the courtyard incident, or whether he will apologize for his role in this mess. My thoughts have been pulled in every direction these past few days. They may well get the better of me. But I will still try. It has to be done.

In the meantime, I’ve found solace by working in the forge. I went in to sharpen my broadsword not long after you left for Crestwood. When I mentioned that I had been working as a blacksmith back home and offered my services, I was immediately asked about what I could do. They have a backlog that’s grown as the Inquisition has, and the pay is good. So, I have begun to spend half the day hammering away at tools, weapons, horseshoes, and so on. There’s very little talking involved, and the work is enjoyable. It gives me a sense of purpose. It's satisfying to think of how my swords will be used to cut down Venatori or Red Templars, and that the cart wheels we make will carry supplies to camps in every direction on the map.

I know you won’t receive any of my letters until you reach Weisshaupt a month from now. I hope your journey hasn’t left you too weary, and that the Grey Wardens are treating you with the respect you deserve. Tell me of the things you’ve seen and done on the way.

Yours,

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

It’s a clear, crisp day and, once again, Marcus and I are sitting on the steps of the battlements. He's brightened in the week since I told him when you were coming back. I had been reading to him until he squirmed out of my lap, saying his brain was too full for more stories.

At the moment, he’s picking at the grass as he watches a large blue beetle crawl through a patch of clover flowers. I’ll have to give his hands a thorough scrubbing before dinner. His face, too. I don’t understand the appeal of putting whatever dirt-covered things are lying around into his mouth, but he clearly does. He’s still completely unbothered at being scolded for it. You may have been right in saying that he only does it to test my limits.

As for [a small blot of ink here] Apologies. I had to grab Marcus before he wandered all the way down the staircase. He said he was going to see Blackwall. The man’s set to join Lady Cadash soon to retake a port on the Storm Coast from Red Templars. I didn’t want to deny Marcus a little more time with him before he left, so I gathered up my writing board and the book and led our son down the stairs. I keep fearing that he'll trip and fall.

You may have guessed that I’m writing the rest of this after the fact. It’s evening now. Marcus is playing listlessly with his stuffed sheep, tapping it across his collection of pebbles. I should mention that he has accepted one of them as being Frederick, after we sifted through all the candidates found in our search radius. We spent the rest of the afternoon with Blackwall. Marcus wore himself out exploring the barn, while Blackwall and I sanded down a new bench for the Herald’s Rest. It's meant to replace the one that was broken in a fight, coincidentally on the same night the Inquisitor’s sister arrived. The damage was impressive. Just like old times at the Hanged Man.

Blackwall has been surprisingly quick with this project. He takes a long time to finish the toys that the Inquisition distributes to refugee children. The quality shows it. Marcus has been staring at the rocking griffons. Once, he directly asked me for one. I told him that these were meant for children who had nothing, and that he should wait until his birthday if he wanted more toys. I meant to teach him not to be greedy, but it was hard to see that look on his face. I want to give him everything.

Varric and I are speaking again. We met with the others last night for Wicked Grace. He owes me five sovereigns. We’ll see if that changes in tomorrow’s game.

I imagine you’re halfway to the Anderfels by now. You must be worn out after days of hard riding, but I would be glad to hear a little news from you. Your companions’ annoying habits, the lizard that crawled into your shoe, anything.

My eyes can barely focus on the page. I need to get some sleep.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke, 

Your first letter from Serault arrived this morning. A raven keeper called me over during combat training. I broke the seal and started reading immediately. It was as if the world around me had gone blank.

We’ve waited so long for another child. Poor timing, indeed, and the worry that comes with it, but also -- joy.

At that moment, all I wanted was for us to be back home, living as Verus and Bethany again, with the support of people who we can rely on to be there in a year’s time. I’m glad you at least found some kindness during your stay in Serault. I know you dislike being taken care of, but you are not a "self-watering plant," no matter how much you insist on it. You deserve so much more than small comforts where you can get them. When you return, I will remain at your side. 

I’ve found myself wanting to understand more about Serault. In a way, it would make me feel closer to you, and I might be able to tell Marcus some bedtime stories about your adventures. I found some books with pictures and maps when I searched the library this afternoon. Marcus drifted in and out of sleep against my shoulder after refusing to go take his nap.

I was mistaken in thinking that we would find peace and quiet there. As I wedged a book back into place -- an aggressively dull treatise on Seraultine trade routes -- I heard someone ask if I needed help finding anything. The accent was similar to my own. It was the altus. I told him no, then continued skimming the shelf. He commented that he was also looking for information in the same section, and persisted with irritating small talk, to which I gave vague replies.

I don’t care that we crossed paths years ago in Minrathous. Last I checked, I am no longer required by law to pay him a scrap of my attention if I do not wish to. At Skyhold I have just as much power to set the terms as he does. He would do well to remember that, and be glad that I am willing to tolerate him and accept Lady Cadash's appraisal of his character.

He’s invited me to join him for lunch tomorrow with Leliana and Josephine. The two of them are rarely available at the same time, and so I've accepted, against my better judgment. I’ll tell you the outcome in my next letter. I look forward to yours.

An embrace.

Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Orlesian puzzle from the earlier letter? Covered in teeth marks by now. A recurring scene: “No. Spit it out.” One hand outstretched, the other fishing for a handkerchief. Petulant noises. A sigh. Followed by tiny fingers being gently removed from an equally tiny mouth.
> 
> I’m going to switch to posting every two weeks after Chapter 5, since I have a busier work schedule on the horizon. But the story will continue! *determined face*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the letters waiting for Hawke at Weisshaupt.
> 
> Hawke’s mother taught her how to play the lute back in Lothering. She plans to start teaching Marcus once she gets back to Skyhold, now that he’s old enough. Anyway, [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZYzuIGDYGs) what the overture Fenris mentions in the first letter sounds like. The actual 17th-century lute piece is called "Lachrimae."

Hawke,

Your second letter showed up not long after the first. There was a knock on the door a short while ago as I was reading to Marcus from a book of folktales. He was too sleepy to realize what was happening, so I picked up where we left off and waited until he had started to drool onto my nightshirt before opening the letter. He's been falling asleep this way for the past few weeks, after crying and clinging on like a kitten when I try to tuck him into his own bed behind the divider. He says he’s frightened of the people who walk around the room at night. He claims they live in the walls and will eat him up without us to protect him. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but it seems best to take him seriously and reassure him that he’s safe.

We’ve settled in well in all other respects. The room is starting to resemble our home. Full of drawings, mostly on scrap paper, and the peril of loose pastels and chalk stubs waiting in ambush for my feet every morning. The endless spawning of tiny socks does little to help. In an attempt to combat this, I have been encouraging Marcus to give his scribbles away. Sera has tacked a few of them to the walls of her corner room at the tavern.

But regarding your letter. Your last night in Serault. I wish I could have been there when you woke from that nightmare, and when you returned to your empty, cold room. Amata, when I see you in that state, and hear your ragged breaths in the dark, it makes me never want to let go of you.

Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to make it back to us safely. Please, for once in your life, protect yourself before you think of those around you. Whatever the Fade might tell you, I swear that you are not selfish, or a coward. You have the fiercest heart of anyone I have ever known. I love you. We need you here.

Varric sends his best. I haven't told him the details of what you wrote, since he is so fond of exaggerating your exploits and divulging your secrets, but I'm sure he would agree with me, if he knew.

Skyhold is busy these days with early preparations for a grand ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. Apparently, it could be an opportunity for Lady Cadash to negotiate the end of the Orlesian Civil War. That was the main topic yesterday afternoon, at Leliana’s prompting. I had not quite realized the extent of her and Josephine’s experience in the Grand Game, or the depth of their friendship. Eventually Dorian and I were drawn into the conversation.

The Game does bear a resemblance to what I witnessed in Minrathous. I tried and failed to keep the revulsion out of my voice as I said so. This resulted in a brief digression into Tevinter politics. Josephine was prepared, as always, and Leliana was willing to hint at a few recent spy reports. As for Dorian, he and Lady Cadash have recently made contact with a magister named Maevaris Tilani. From their description of her, she is uninterested in upholding the status quo, and has sought the Inquisition's aid in combating the Venatori.

I was interested in hearing more about their plans. However, it soon became clear that Dorian's understanding of my own perspective was about as limited as I'd expected it to be, beyond how Lady Cadash had already rectified his views on slavery. She has my gratitude for it. I doubt I would have spoken to him if I had been faced with that infuriating task.

During the discussion, there were some things I thought unwise to fully express in front of him. I suspect that even if the Resistance succeeds at eliminating the Venatori, the end result will be little more than power changing hands and remaining among the magisters. You remember that I have been considering how true, lasting change could be effected. I began writing to agents in Tevinter not long after you left -- sometimes in the same sitting that I had written a letter to you. I will tell you more about my contacts there and our plans when you return.

I thought of you this evening while I was playing diamondback with Bull’s Chargers. The Iron Bull was sprawled in his usual spot where he can monitor the ground floor of the Herald's Rest. He gathers information out of habit these days rather than purpose, but his eyes and ears are no less sharp. A few musicians had drifted over to a nearby corner for an impromptu session. I recognized some of the songs as Fereldan, like the ones you played years ago at the Hanged Man with other refugees from the Blight. I'm glad you brought your lute with you to Skyhold. Although I was surprised to hear you start picking out the overture from Pernilla at the River while the other musicians were taking a rest. Surprised, but not too greatly. It has a quiet melancholy to it. You’d spent all night playing reels and drinking songs that everyone knew the words to. Until that point you'd been trying so desperately to be happy.

In the weeks without news from you, after you’d set out for Adamant, I kept thinking back to that final night, after last call at the tavern when we stole away to the shadows in the garden. We had half-succeeded at unlacing and fumbling with buttons when you suddenly asked me what the owl would think. I remember glancing away from your neck in confusion, then being startled by two round yellow eyes glaring at us from a nearby tree. I’m glad my expression amused you so much. But it was hard to see the pain in yours as you laughed, and laughed, and bit your lip, regarding me in silence. You held my face in your callused hands with such tenderness. And then it was morning all too soon, and I was watching you dress and pulling you back into bed, savoring the warmth of your curves and the feel of your smile against my lips, neither of us wanting to waste the few moments that remained when it was only the two of us.

I’ll write more soon. Take some extra food when nobody’s looking. Say you fed it to a raven, as thanks.

Yours,

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

Marcus was sick yesterday. I don’t want to alarm you. I merely thought you should know. By now the redness has faded from his cheeks and he’s stopped kicking the blankets away. He asked for his puzzle block to play with not long after he woke up. He’s been working on it with a slow curiosity.

I’m not sure what he caught. I feel such guilt for not even seeing that he was sick, at first. It started with lethargy and inconsolable whining, which I mistook for him sulking when he didn’t get his way. I eventually lost my patience and refused to carry him when we climbed the stairs to the rookery. By lunch, he was burning with fever.

The chief medic came by the room a few times to check in. She said there wasn't much that healing magic could do beyond lower his temperature, as she had just done. However, the infirmary did have medicine that had settled a few stomachs so far. More than enough left for a young child.

It’s been a long day and night. Marcus has had difficulty keeping anything down, aside from a bowl of broth. He rejected the medicine when I tried giving him a dose. It did have a very strong flavor. I made a strangled noise when I tried it myself. So, I diluted it with hot water until it tasted less offensive and mixed in some honey and lemon rind. Marcus accepted this with a scowl and a wrinkled nose, one spoonful at a time.

As much as he would have been soothed by your touch and the sound of your voice, this was the only time I’ve been glad that you’re as far away as you are. Not half because of how Marcus vomited repeatedly onto the nearest person rather than into the bucket on the floor. He’s ruined all three of my shirts. I suppose I deserve that.

He slept fitfully, and when he woke every now and then I picked him up and brought him out to the veranda for fresh air. I kept calm throughout this by reminding myself of how stoically he endured our journeys across the sea and up the Frostbacks, and how he once fell into a frozen pond without any lingering harm. He even recovered from the red pox as a baby after Doctor Gilburne had already consoled us on our loss. A terrible memory for us both. I am sorry to even mention it. Yet it was the one thing that allowed me to catch an hour of sleep here and there. We could lose him -- I think about this constantly, as I know you do -- and yet each time this Maker-damned world tries to snatch him away from us, like it’s taken everyone and everything else, he holds on with such tenacity. Each time so far. He’s only four years old. As much as he makes me think of the future, part of me cannot bear to.

He needs to eat something. I’m going to the kitchens. More later.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

Marcus says he wants you to tell him the story about the Nug King when you come back, the one that your father told you. You have a narrative flair that I have so far been unable to match. He’s such a particular child. When I asked him if he wanted to tell you anything else, he shook his head and continued his attempts to somersault across the rug.

My forehead felt slightly too warm when I washed my face this morning. Then I became fatigued after combat training, even though I spent most of the time supervising the new recruits. In case my condition worsens, I’ve decided to keep to our room. A medic will be checking in regularly. Marcus was giddy at the chance to spend all day with his Uncle Varric. When he asked why, I said I was tired and needed to take a long nap. That answer didn't seem to trouble him. He’s been up and about, and I think he’s simply enjoying being able to play outside again.

I have not been going around half-naked since yesterday, if you were worried. For my health, or perhaps that you had missed a chance to give teasing compliments. I have put on some muscle, given that the job of a smith here is more labor-intensive than back home. But that is beside the point. Blackwall has given me one of his own shirts. It’s too broad for me in the shoulders, but I’m told it looks rakish when I roll up the sleeves. I’ve also bought a new one from Bonny Sims. Pale green with dark blue stitching. The latest from Jader, apparently.

That should do fine for now. Perhaps we could see what else the markets in Jader have to offer when we visit at Wintersend. Your eyes light up whenever you find things for people, things that might be useful or please them in some small way. I... enjoy that. You, holding a shirt up against me, asking me what I think. I assume you’ll try to do the same for Carver this time. I wouldn’t mind him being there. At least the crowds will make it hard to hear whatever comes out of his mouth.

The quill is starting to feel heavy in my hand. That can't be good. Before I climb back into bed, let me tell you more about how I’ve been thinking of you. I miss the sight of you in our garden on a sunny day, digging up carrots or red and yellow chard, wiping your forehead, your hands caked with dirt. I miss the sounds of you tuning your lute as Marcus plays in the middle of the floor, your eyes darting nervously over at him after you curse at an off-key note.

As for that, it seems I'm the one who needs to be more careful. The only inappropriate word I've heard him say lately was “fasta vass.” Unfortunately, it was when he knocked his spoon onto the floor at dinner, in the company of several other people, among them Krem, who spat out his drink.

Until later.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

Lady Cadash sat in judgment of Ser Ruth and the magister Erimond this morning. I was there, as was Marcus. She chose to hand them over to the Grey Wardens, saying that it should be their decision how justice is meted out. It was unsatisfying to witness, especially since I've contemplated in great detail how I would punish Erimond, were it my choice. The Great Hall was filled with murmurs afterward. Her ruling was less of a surprise when I considered something Josephine once said, about how Lady Cadash has spoken of a need for checks on the Inquisition's power. We may have to wait a while to see the full outcome.

Josephine and I have a chess match in an hour, and I thought I should wash off the sweat from the forge beforehand. So here I am. I’ll have time to climb the tower and send this before heading down to her office, if I ever summon the will to make myself look presentable again. Lyrium markings or no, hours of singleminded focus on shield repair have reduced my arms to jelly.

Last night I was rereading the book of poetry that we took from your library as we fled Kirkwall. When I opened it, my finger was drawn to the dog-eared page of your favorite poem. “To Carina.” I read it again, thinking of your voice the last time you recited it, on a quiet summer evening. If our child is a girl, I think we should name her after it. I know we first chose that name years ago, and you might have changed your mind, but I want you to know that I haven’t. If we have another boy, we could name him Sean. I’m not sure why, except that it sounds… solid. Or perhaps -- didn't your mother once mention that you were almost named Garrett? A fine name. Garrett Hawke.

That brings me to another matter. I’ve written a letter to my mother. It’s sitting here on the desk, pressed under a pile of books. It’s short, and awkward, I fear, but I’ve felt an increasing need to write it, since before we left for Skyhold. I don't know why I’ve kept this from you. But I’ve written it now, and will send it tomorrow to one of the Inquisition’s contacts in Minrathous. Leliana has assured me that he will be able to find her and read it to her if necessary.

If that holds true, my mother will learn that I'm well, and am living on my own terms on the coast of the Waking Sea, married to a Fereldan woman, with a child named after my father and another on the way. I've told her that my memories are still sparse, and asked about her life, her health. I also plan to enclose some money. Not so much as to attract attention, but enough to help if she’s in need of it. 

I’ll let you know if she replies.

Yours,

Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, DA2 headcanon: Varania said some very different things to Fenris when he spared her life. Not the disturbing statement about him getting the better end of the bargain. Or the mention of their mother's passing. She's definitely still alive.
> 
> Other notes: _Pernilla at the River_ is a play from the Free Marches that’s somewhere between tragedy and comedy. I couldn’t find anything except the stuff on Orlesian theater in the Dragon Age Codex, so I had to make something up. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It’s usually put on by traveling theater troupes because it has a small cast of characters and you only need one musician. Some actually perform it along a riverbank and make their audience follow the actors from scene to scene.
> 
> Somebody brought an owl to Skyhold for the same reason as the cats that perch in the rafters of the Herald's Rest and slink around the dungeons. Namely, to go after the critters that scurry off the supply wagons. 
> 
> (They're all barn cats, except for a chubby tortoiseshell who likes belly rubs and stretching out in sunbeams on the floor of Josephine's office.)
> 
> Also: Fenris and The Iron Bull, hangin’ out in Dad Club. Krem is the cool big brother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke’s finally made it to Weisshaupt! She has a few thoughts about that. And about a certain handsome elf.

[Written on familiar marbled stationery with what was likely a more austere quill and ink set. The handwriting is smaller, as if to conserve paper. On the upper corner of the first letter there’s a flower drawn in full bloom.]

Dear Fenris,

Before I thank you for the brick of letters that was waiting here at Weisshaupt, can I tell you how amazing it is to be able to lounge around with no trousers on and soak my feet? We had to walk the last few hours to get here, although let me reassure you that we were on horseback for the earlier stretch of the journey, which was slow (ostensibly for the horses' sake, but it served my purposes just as well). We've been crowding into tents and barn lofts for shelter, which has been increasingly nerve-wracking. But now, privacy! And absurd portions. What’s a Grey Warden headquarters without a well-stocked kitchen?

We only got here a few hours ago and I've already read all your letters twice. They're a definite improvement on the cheap serial novels we've been passing around. They're… well, they're something, all right. I'll bring a few back so you can see for yourself. [down the side of the page: "I don't mean to imply that your letters are being read by any eyes other than mine, of course. I hoard them. Like a dragon!"] Anyway, I dove in as soon as I’d unpacked my things and heated the kettle for the basin (once again I found myself wishing I had more aptitude for fire magic, it would make life so much easier). I have a habit these days of resting one hand on my belly without even thinking, and now I don’t have to worry about being seen doing it. Mentioned that in my last letter, didn’t I. The same as when I was carrying Marcus. As for the current guest at Chateau Hawke, they’ve yet to announce themselves with a good stomach-churning kick, but the other day I felt the slightest bit of movement as we set out from the village where we’d been staying, back onto the twisting, windswept road to Weisshaupt. A hesitant hello, I guess. Well, hello to you, too, little one. 

I miss you two so much. It’s like an ache that’s settled into my body and is weighing down my bones. Even the sight of your handwriting sent a twinge of pain through me, right after my heart began to race. Happiness that I would be with you and hear your voice, followed by the realization that it would only be in my mind. I wouldn’t be able to feel your leg resting against mine or your hand braced behind me on the bed as I turned to ask you the myriad questions I have about the news you’ve sent from Skyhold. So I’ll focus on the most important ones for now.

Has Marcus stayed well this past week? Based on what you've said, the chief medic should've given him a restorative after he recovered. Two spoonfuls a day from the labeled jar on the left end of the third shelf. If she got distracted and hasn't yet, it would still be a good idea to give him some now, ideally until the jar is empty. And does he still say that he can see people walking around at night? You haven't seen anything, have you? Maybe you could ask one of the mages to investigate the room. Tell Marcus that everyone is scared sometimes, but he can't let his fear take over him. You need his help in figuring out what's wrong, and I know he can do it because he's shown us that he's very brave.

Mostly, though, I just want to hold him and tell him it’s all right. Like when we sit by the fireplace during a summer storm and he snuggles close to me, clapping his hands over his ears whenever a thunderbolt booms and flashes across the sky. And then he asks us if a mage is doing that, since he saw me cast lightning spells to ward off a pack of wolves that time we got lost in the woods, and he wants to know how strong is the biggest mage in the world, and do they help people in secret, like I do. We can’t keep stalling much longer with vague answers. I won’t say anything about Tevinter until you do, but -- oh, Fen, how are we going to do it? Have we got a few years left before he starts asking questions about your lyrium markings? Has he already been asking you in the months I’ve been gone?

I keep worrying [crammed in above this line: "I’ve had too much time for that as we’ve pressed onward these past few weeks, with only the occasional skirmish with bandits and Venatori"] over whether we’re preparing him enough, and in the right way, for whatever comes next. I imagine my parents must have thought more or less the same thing. As did yours.  I hope your mother replies soon, Fenris love. That news is taking a little while to get itself fully settled into my brain, astonishing as it is. In a good way. When I get back, could we talk about it?

Also, I know you were rattled when you wrote that first letter, but in case you're still thinking those things: you’ve never felt like a burden to me, and I don’t need or want you to repay me for anything. Do you honestly think I've been keeping some kind of secret account book? You think I would use my dying breath to flip to page 345 and complain to the giant, momentarily confused spider demon about the time I had to take our son mushroom-hunting by myself after you’d had a horrible night and needed some space? Complaining is the last thing I would do. When I think of that day and others like it, I think of turning back and seeing you through the window, sitting at the table with your head in your hands, and having an impulse to go back in and wrap my arms around you but accepting that I couldn't, because you didn't want to be touched. I think of how Marcus asked to spend the afternoon in the garden, and how you taught him to tend to the vegetables and flowers. [A watery smudge here] You're so gentle with him. It breaks my heart.

And yes, you’re right, Fen. I'm bad at accepting kindness and support, even from people who love me. But don't you remember all the times when that hasn't been the case? You know that the moment I realized I was falling in love with you was when you started speaking Qunlat with the Arishok, completely out of nowhere and without a trace of smugness afterward. I practically had to pop my eyeballs back into my head before I could continue with the negotiations. Then there were worse times. After we scattered my mother’s ashes. I’ll never forget how often you came to spend time with me over the three months I spent in my room, feeling like I was wandering the Void. You didn't say much at all. You mostly just read me the news from the Chantry board or a chapter from Varric’s latest novel. I wasn't very good company for you or anyone else who knocked, but a day or two would pass and you’d be back, standing in the doorframe, saying hello and waiting for me to turn over and see you, then settling down into the chair by my bed.

I don’t like imagining where I would be today if you and the others hadn’t done that. Or where either of us would be if we hadn’t met each other, or them. Being out here, and missing you... that's emphasized it for me, how we've learned to make each other feel safe and comfortable and respected in a world that doesn't exactly scramble to offer those things to people like us. Hmm. In all seriousness, love, I’d say you’re less of a porcupine and more of a hedgehog these days. The kind of person who knows when to show the soft underbelly he’s protecting under those spikes. You’re also thoughtful, and scrupulously honest, and our senses of humor mesh pretty well, wouldn't you say? You have the most beautiful smile. When I see it, my heart feels full.

Tamar has just stopped by to say that the dining hall has opened for dinner. She’s leaning against the door frame quite comfortably, with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised. I shouldn’t keep her waiting.

I’ve just realized that I’m still not wearing any trousers and my tunic's rolled up.

Blast. I think we’ll be having an interesting conversation shortly. Thank the Maker she’s discreet.

Your ever-loving

Hawke

 

* * *

 

Dear Fenris,

Here’s some unbelievable news for you. Carver is here! We reunited with a bear hug from me and an awkward back-patting from him. He caught me in the hallway as Tamar and I were leaving my room to go to dinner last night. Tamar stepped back and was about to make an exit, but I linked arms with her and felt her de-stiffen as I kept on talking with Carver. [In the margin: "She’s always going off by herself. Not sure if she understands that we genuinely care about her and want her around."]

Carver says he set out as soon as he heard about Adamant. Luckily, he and a small cohort were in Nevarra already, just across the river from Caimen Brea. He’s grown a beard that he’s taken surprisingly good care of. He looks so much like Father, between that and how much he’s filled out in the past few years. Proper mountain of a Hawke now, my brother, hitting his head on door frames while he’s busy turning sideways to fit his shoulders through them. He’s also got dark circles under his eyes that are troubling me.

I’ve broken the news that he’ll be dealing with two children climbing all over him and poking at his face next Wintersend. He wasn’t paying attention, since Tamar was suddenly of far greater interest (possibly mutual, and that's the last I'm going to think about that), so I had to repeat the important bits and waggle my eyebrows until he got my meaning. At which point he scoffed and said that it figures. What in the world is that supposed to mean? Honestly, Carver. Well, in any case, at dinner he pulled up a chair next to me and kept passing food in my direction, asking if I wanted more, etc. So, you two aren't as different as you'd like to think. Weren’t you just telling me to steal rations and stuff my face?

Carver and I have been busy with different tasks and have only really had a chance to catch up at mealtimes. The talks with the Grey Wardens about the future of the Order have been going about as well as they could under the circumstances, which means that they’re going terribly. The fact that I’m the one here instead of Stroud, they, hmm. They aren't pleased. In their somber Warden way. I almost wish they were furious. You know what, I just want them to outright blame me for everything, all right? I do. Like how I've been blaming myself in my mind, no matter how much I try to stop myself and think of your counterarguments. In a way, it would make things easier if they did. Instead, we’ve got a massive midden heap of problems and only a few shovels and willing workers to clear it with. Which also raises the question of where the garbage is going once we’ve chucked it away, so to speak.

I don’t know how much news you’ve all been getting out of Weisshaupt these days. Just take whatever you’ve guessed at and make it about ten times worse. The irresponsible corner of my mind is glad that we’re getting out of here in a few days. I’m sure my part in this will be reduced to accidental chaos-bringing, as per usual, but right now I’m more concerned with providing the perspective of someone who actually witnessed Adamant and pushing back against the more pigheaded council members who don’t know what they’re talking about and aren’t used to having a woman challenge them on that. There's just a handful of us on the council, and the proportion wasn't much better when I peered across the dining hall last night. Baffling.

Neria’s also been at the daily meetings, since she’s doing political work for both the Dalish and the Inquisition. She’s incredibly driven. Her notebook is crammed almost to the endpapers with all the information she’s jotted down, as well as her analyses and reports. I’ve seen her showing them to Alenne, who was fascinated. I’ll have to check that she’s left out the confidential parts, seeing as it’s entirely possible her heart’s gotten in the way of her head. They might as well be floating on a cloud together above all this death and gloom. It’s sweet. Makes me want to ruffle their hair. [squeezed in below: "Andraste's arse, I'm getting old."]

Back to the meetings -- we’ve noticed that there are schisms developing here, and by all indications, Weisshaupt is headed toward a slow collapse while the rest of us keep striking at Corypheus without their help. It’s a relief that the Wardens in Orlais and Ferelden are doing everything they can to redeem themselves and rebuild. We’ll need them.

I really wish I had better news to send you two. Here’s something Marcus will like: Warden Garahel’s armor is kept on display here, along with his bow and quiver and the horns of the Archdemon Andoral. Garahel’s ashes aren’t there, but you do feel something nonetheless. A sort of presence. I take the long way back to my room in the evenings so I can stop by for a chat. I’ve told him that my son will run around flailing with excitement to hear that I came this close to his hero, and that his favorite game is pretending to be him, with his father as Crookytail, carrying him piggyback while making hilariously bad attempts at griffon noises. Sometimes I ask him things, too. Garahel, I mean. Although I don’t expect to get any answers.

There’s a broken flagstone on the floor, near the glass sarcophagus. I put a chip of it in my pocket yesterday. It’s now wrapped safely in a side pouch on the inside of my pack. A new friend for Frederick.

We’ll be in Perendale in about ten days. Send your letters to Imelda at the Winsome Gurgut. She’ll make sure they get to me.

Most affectionately, your

Hawke

 

* * *

 

Dear Fenris,

I spent this evening stargazing with Neria, Alenne, and Thornton in one of the fortress’s tall spires. The room we found might have been an observatory once. Given how the door hinges screeched and the armchairs puffed dust that made us cough, it’s long been out of use. But the telescopes were still in working condition, and although the leather spines of the books were on the crispy side, they weren’t so fragile that we couldn’t search for a sky chart for this time of year. We propped open one of the tall, grimy windows to get a clearer view. It’s much colder here at night than during the daytime. The air is dry enough to make your nose bleed.

I’m looking out the window in my guest room now. I can still see Tenebrium and Silentir arcing across the sky. There’s also Solium, in a far corner, above the dark, jagged spikes of the mountains.

Fenris, love. Do you remember what Flemeth said to us, all those years ago on Sundermount?

I think I’m finally feeling the edge of that precipice beneath my feet.

The Inquisitor had to make an impossible choice when we were in the Fade. I don't want to know her reasons for choosing Stroud over me to stay behind. And yet the more that I push the thought away, the more it stays put, and strengthens what's been lurking in my mind ever since Flemeth blazed across the field of darkspawn outside Lothering. All this talk of fate and chance, and not hesitating to leap.

We weren't fools to answer Varric's letter. We were fools to assume that what we had built for ourselves would last much longer. The world's not done with us yet. It's not done with me. I've just got to figure out what it's demanding and decide how much more I'm willing to give. I want to keep helping, that's just how I am, but sometimes I feel so angry and exhausted and confused. I've turned away so many times in my life, whether I've been pulled in some direction or have run toward it, only to find that when I turn back, the people closest to me have suffered, or are gone, forever, without a chance to say goodbye.

I don't understand it, Fen. I never have. And now that I’m trying to fix this mess, there’s nothing we can do to protect each other like we have in the past. I thought that I would be able to breathe easier with you and Marcus safely at Skyhold, but I haven't, not for a moment. Being anxious about you two is practically ingrained in me. Habitual. Like how I keep trying to be lighthearted, despite knowing that I don't have to pretend with you, that I can take off the mask, if only for a little while. It's as if the mask doesn't want to come off.

Do you know what else I want, love? I want Marcus and the baby to grow up without knowing what that feels like. Any of it. I want them to stare at us in confusion when we tell them the worst stories about our pasts and how life used to be, even though we'll have toned down the details until they're older. The world can throw whatever it likes at me, but I refuse to lose hope in that.

So let’s stay at Skyhold for as long as we’re needed. You can go ahead and tell them that, if you agree. I’m looking forward to wedging my extremely pregnant self past Cullen to inspect the plans on the war table and offer my input. Ideally while armed with a snack, but I doubt Josephine will approve of me scattering crumbs across the maps. That would make for a rather crunchy journey for the army and supply markers.

I’ll write more once we get to Perendale.

I love you.

Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That comment about speaking with the Arishok is based on my last playthrough of DA2. For some reason Hawke looked at Fenris with ginormous goldfish eyes when she asked “What was all that about?” and a headcanon was born. 
> 
> See you all in two weeks! Now please excuse me while I ugly-cry about Garahel and the Fourth Blight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the horizon: the ball (and hopefully peace talks) at the Winter Palace, and a barque waiting in the port of Val Royeaux.  
> But first! A snow day or two. This calls for mittens on a string.

Hawke,

There’s a blizzard howling outside, wrapping itself around the walls. The Great Hall is filled with potted plants and restless people. I’ve settled in a corner near a brazier. Marcus and Sera are across the hall, playing a game of their own invention with a battered deck of cards. I heard a shriek of triumph a moment ago, which would suggest that Marcus has won again, somehow.

He has remained his usual robust self, in part thanks to daily doses of the restorative. No questions about my lyrium markings yet. I made no mention of them during my simplified explanation of magisters at the recent judgment in this same hall. He may start asking more questions soon. I have some answers prepared.

Hawke. I’ve delayed writing to you for a day, and then another.

I would rather not write this in such a crowded place, even if my back is to a wall and the nearest people are absorbed in mending clothes and reviving old arguments with one another.

I can’t put this off any longer.

The things you said about us, amata. I didn’t mean to -- when I --

You are --

[Several lines have been crossed out, rewritten, and crossed out again]

Venhedis. Why is this so difficult.

I may as well start here.

Yesterday I joined Josephine and Madame de Fer in the gallery facing the garden. It was sunset, and the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. We opened a bottle of Verchiel white and let the conversation flow where it would take us.

At a certain point Josephine turned to ask me a question, but I had no reply ready. In my distraction, I hadn’t been listening. The breeze carried a scent almost like the perfume you use after you bathe. For a moment I thought only of the reflection of low light on water and the soft skin of your inner thigh after an evening spent in comfortable silence, absorbed in our own tasks. A different kind of happiness than what we once knew in Kirkwall.

That day you spoke of, last autumn. You brought it up to alleviate my doubts, but it was sharp, the reminder. I had been well for so long before that day, and then -- I have tried to forget what passed that morning while you were out.

Please -- I don’t want to speak more of this until we see each other again. I need to hold you. I need to feel your tight embrace, and your peaceful release as I pull away, always free to leave and return, as you are.

I can’t claim to understand why events have unfolded as they have, or agree with your insistence on taking so much on your own shoulders. I think often of our unborn child, and of holding Marcus on the day he was born and gazing at him with what may be the strangest, purest emotion I have ever felt. We’ve struggled for years, building this life we have together. Will the world not allow us to have even that, in the end?

I promise I will write another letter before you reach Perendale.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

I’m sorry to hear of the problems you faced at Weisshaupt. We’ve received very little news of it here, and I had hoped, perhaps without cause, that things would be better than what you described. I’ve been picturing the knot that appears between your brows when you’re exasperated and trying to contain your temper. I would smooth it out with my thumb if I could.

As for the news we have received, apparently the more local Grey Wardens have been fighting against recent darkspawn attacks in western Orlais. Rumors that the Wardens would be banished started to spread not long after we heard of Adamant, but it seems [“Lady Cadash” has been crossed out here] Danra and her advisors have decided otherwise. I am still unsure what to think of that.

For Marcus’ part, your mentions of your brother and Garahel left him saucer-eyed. He spent the better part of an hour running around the room and jumping on the armchair as he rambled at me about the adventures of Garahel and Crookytail. He’s added a fair amount to his narrative about them since you left. Skyhold does provide a certain scope for the imagination. From what I can follow, they’re searching for a gem to give to the Nug King for his tenth birthday. He says it’s hiding in the mages’ tower.

Which brings me to something else, Hawke. It's hard to write this, but I wouldn't want you to be caught unawares by it when you return. During his story, Marcus abruptly said that Bran was the best at finding things. He's been talking about our mabari with a forlorn look on his face. Earlier today he was drawing with his finger on a fogged window and saying he wished Bran were here, so he could play with him in the snow. Then he wanted to know if Bran is going to visit us. I tried to explain again that he will not be coming back. Marcus seemed to finally accept this, and grew very quiet before asking if that meant you wouldn't be coming back, after all. Once I had calmed him down and dried his tears, we had a long talk about the difference between going away for a little while and going to the Maker's side. He seemed confused but reassured that he will see you again soon, and that you will tell him everything he wants to know.

His last question -- we were climbing the stairs to find Danra for a game of backgammon -- was about whether Frederick would also leave someday to join the Maker. The idea that he will always have his friend greatly improved his mood, as did the possibility that his small rock is older than Skyhold and even the Frostbacks themselves. Danra was subjected to an earful of excited chatter when we found her in the library.

You may be able to guess that relations have improved between me and the Inquisitor. To varying extents due to the persistence of a small child who has become fond of a certain board game, and to a few instances of counsel before a duel in Val Royeaux. That occurred after Josephine had been betrothed against her wishes to an Antivan nobleman who felt he had an equal claim to her affections. I suppose this is where you would roll your eyes and recount the behavior of your suitors at Hightown parties. Let me redirect your attention to those parties’ refreshment tables and our trysts in dark alcoves. [In the margin: “Or perhaps the aftermath of that Summersday banquet when you revealed that you'd filled your purse with Antivan cheese pastries on the way out.”]

I’ve told Danra that we will be staying here for the foreseeable future. She responded by clasping my arm as a warm smile spread across her face. She says she looks forward to getting to know you better.

Yours,

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

The sky has cleared after another day spent cramped indoors. Teams of workers, one of which included me, Cassandra, and Danra, went out earlier to clear the road so that she and her party will not have to delay their departure for Halamshiral. The snow melted quickly within Skyhold, but there was still time for Marcus to have his fun. He’s gotten better at making snowballs. And at aiming them.

I brought Marcus with me for the road clearing. He stayed out of the way for the most part, and built a lopsided snowman that he was reluctant to say goodbye to until I reminded him that we were going to visit Elis and Dervla. We’ve been leaving Skyhold a few times a week to stave off restlessness -- one morning, we retraced the shortest road to the river valley. Within an hour, I was sitting around a fire pit with the camp followers and Marcus had run off with two children around his age. Be prepared to hear all about them when you return.  

I have been meaning to tell you -- the dance lessons for the ball at the Winter Palace ended earlier this week. Anyone who had the time was welcome to join, so I did so on a few occasions. It turns out I’m less rusty than I’d thought. At the sarabande, especially. It was all I could do not to smile strangely as I recalled your description, years ago in Hightown, out of earshot of the dancing instructor your mother had hired. Hop to the left, spin around, glare at your partner, keep hopping, don’t forget to flap your arms. Like seagulls circling a stack of day-old bread. I did pass that last comment along to my current dance partner, under my breath. Josephine and I had difficulty keeping straight faces after that.

The Iron Bull was my other partner at the last session. He is an adequate dancer who makes up for pulverized toes with easy conversation. I suppose it helps that we’re already friends. When I visit the tavern at the end of a long day, I invariably find myself seeking out his company, if he’s at Skyhold for the time being.

Danra was already sitting at the bar with him and her sister, Angharad, when I came in that night, after massaging my toes. [In the space above: “I did wear shoes for the lesson. No bandages were necessary”] She poured me a glass of something called Highland Ravager and told me not to think too hard about the name. I didn’t, seeing as I was busy coughing and wiping my eyes after the first sip. It was better than I had expected. You would like it. We toasted to Angharad and the one-month anniversary of her arrival. Apparently the Carta was taking revenge on Danra through her and the family tailor shop, and Danra had finally convinced her to leave it behind. Her new jobs here involve outfitting the staff and checking over the supply shipments with Morris. She also knows an impressive variety of drinking songs. You should hear her and Bull’s Chargers. As it was, only Krem joined us. He stumbled in near the end of the night with Varric, both merry and… what is that term you use. Soused.

[A wild scribble here] Marcus has decided to climb into my lap. I should mention here that a mage inspected the room and found nothing out of the ordinary. Our son’s bed is now surrounded by a ring of salt that the mage told him would keep the monsters away. He has slept soundly on his own ever since, although the first few nights he fussed until I read him another story, and then another.

I’ve been thinking of you, amata. Your light touch as you walk past me when others are present. When you’re weary, think of my hand at the small of your back.

Yours,

Fenris

[In wobbly letters, guided by a steadier writer: "Hello mumMy I miss you thiS is marcus"]

 

* * *

 

[Written on the same stationery from Serault. The handwriting is even more cramped than before.]

Dear Fenris,

Imelda is a treasure. She put your letters in the lockbox here at the Winsome Gurgut as soon as they arrived. That's also where she keeps the reports to send off to Skyhold. More than a few pieces of news make the rounds in this tavern, after all, here in a bustling part of the city. The tavern's been here for decades and is a bit run-down in a cozy way, and I've only had to share quarters with Tamar this time.

We got here yesterday morning and will be leaving today after a large breakfast. Based on what we’ve worked out, we should be at Skyhold in just over a fortnight. That means we’ll miss Wintersend by a few days. I’m so sorry, Fen, but that’s the fastest we can get there. I know Marcus will be terribly disappointed, please tell him how sorry I am and that I wish it didn't have to be this way. But there's bound to be a hundred things happening at Skyhold and the encampment. He always cheers up so quickly. Wish I knew his secret.

We’ll still have to find a way to make it up to him. My companions have been talking about having a belated celebration at the Herald’s Rest, but I think we should do something more, on a different day. Just the three of us. Especially since it’ll be four next year. Five, with Carver.

Today we’ll be continuing south through the Blasted Hills until we reach the Imperial Highway, and from then it’s straight on to Val Royeaux. Then we’ll hop on a ship to the port of Jader. A week overland and up the mountains and there’s the river camp and the path to Skyhold. Then the portcullis will be raised with an unbearably long creak, and Marcus will run up to me for a twirling hug and I’ll just have to carry him around and feed him snacks for the rest of the day. You might be more hesitant, not quite believing it’s really me. But it will be. I’ll prove it to you.

I had a dream about you last night. Certainly not for the first time since we parted, but this was the most vivid one I’ve had in a while, not least because I’ve had trouble sleeping. We were wandering the woods near home, hand in hand, crunching through the fallen leaves. Somehow I got this feeling that we were younger. We were talking about something that’s already faded from my mind. There was a log across the path that had been covered by the leaves and moss, so we didn’t see it and we stumbled, I fell, and you were dragged down with me. Once the shock wore off, I felt a laugh rumbling through your chest, and mine, and the heat of your lips. Sweet Andraste, that look you give me. I would say that it’s searing, because that would describe the effect it has, but really, it’s soft. Even in a dream, I could see that clearly. Your eyes, and the way you look at me.

Unfortunately, I woke up right around then. May I suggest that we continue once I get back to Skyhold? Somewhere indoors, I should think. Is that tower room still conveniently abandoned…?

Here in Perendale we celebrated our first day of not-camping and not-combat in a week by sitting on our arses all afternoon, as pleasantly lethargic as turtles taking a sunbath on a rock. There was a performance of Giulia and Omar at an amphitheater that Imelda told us about. I’ve sealed in the playbill for you, Fen. It’s lucky for the raven that it’s printed on such flimsy paper. But the woodcuts are quite lovely, aren’t they? Such delicate cross-hatching. The one on the cover is a really striking likeness of the lead actors.

Honestly, we could have been watching a play as disastrous as that fake Hard in Hightown novel (what was it called? The Re-Punchening?Is it possible for a thing to be so gloriously awful?) and I still would have been satisfied. Sorry, Varric. All want to do these days is flop and rest my aching back. It's so unfortunate that flopping isn’t socially acceptable in a theater unless you’re playing a corpse onstage [squeezed in above: “There has to have been at least one tragedy ruined by a laughing corpse. Or -- Maker’s breath, what if they have to sneeze?”]. I did end up nodding off against Amund’s shoulder, though. Will have to chug an entire pot of tea with breakfast to keep myself awake on the road. Well, maybe half a pot, if I want to stay on good terms with my bladder.

Otherwise, I’m all right. I’ve been in charge of gathering firewood since we left Serault, which gives me a chance to sit down under a tree far from camp and use my healing magic to make sure all is as it should be. I’ve felt the little one stirring in their sleep more often, and now there are red streaks along my belly to go with the white ones from Marcus. I’ve also gained weight through some very determined eating at Weisshaupt. I wasn’t liking that bony look on my sturdy Amell hips. We’ve already found the kind of rations that will allow me to keep most of it on and will be stocking up further as we leave the city today.

I say “we” because my companions have finally learned why I’ve been so artfully layering my clothes this past month. I've gotten past the point where that would be sufficient. Tamar and I had a plan ready for this morning wherein I’d get some rest while she told the others a story about me destroying my trousers beyond repair in a horrible accident that happened, most conveniently, just now and behind closed doors. Then she’d go out and find something that would be an approximate fit. As we dropped our bags, though, I felt as if a wave of exhaustion rolled right through me. All of a sudden, the only thing it made sense to do was sit down on the bed and sigh and say that I wanted to discard that plan and tell everyone the real reason. I was sick of holding in my excitement and nervousness and all the rest, and since the journey should be easy from here, the news would be less likely to put a dent in morale or cause them to do harebrained things to protect me.

Even so, they’ve been more concerned than I would like. [In the margin: “Sorry. Let self be taken care of, not martyr, return healthy, etc. Stop clenching the paper, Fen.”] Their initial reactions ranged from WHAT to squinting at my belly to wide-eyed silence as if I’d smacked them. Then Neria said that she was impressed I’d hidden it for so long, and Carver made an uncharitable comment about my lack of subtlety in most things. That earned chuckles all around. Oh, Carver.

He’s going with us to Jader, by the way. Seeing as he's already finished up the assignment that Aveline wrangled for him, and can deliver some news from Weisshaupt when we get there. I swear I’ll fling him off the Imperial Highway long before that if he doesn’t stop nettling me. It’s like we’re in Lowtown again. He does make some comical attempts at looking dignified when Tamar is watching, although I don’t think she’s fooled. She’s still asleep. Probably needs to catch up on it after her disappearance from the room last night. Subtle I may not be, but, again, I’ve been lying awake in hollow-eyed frustration lately and have gotten quite good at faking sleep. I’m having mildly traitorous thoughts about her being too good for him, but for the most part I've just been trying not to think about it.

The sun is streaming in through the cracks in the shutters and this is my last sheet of paper, so it’s about time to shake Tamar awake, finish packing my things, and get dressed in my new adjustable skirts and a bodice that could be quite roomy if need be. How’s that for competition with your fancy Orlesian shirt? (Please do roll up the sleeves on that one, too. Whoever said that style was rakish was making a severe understatement.) I’ll write to you as soon as I get to Val Royeaux.

Heaps of love,

Hawke

[In large, neat letters at the end of the page: "I miss you too, little bee. It makes me so happy to hear from you! Sending you lots of hugs and kisses."]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke had to settle for practical clothes, but if she had her way she’d be striding into Skyhold looking like a more spherical version of [this](https://78.media.tumblr.com/fd2e18d1865b97e567a4a73f6dd0fce3/tumblr_nh1yi9DTeD1tj1of7o2_1280.jpg) (dragon goals).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New possibilities at Skyhold, and partings and meetings.

[Written in an agitated hand, less neat than usual.]

Hawke,

My mother wrote back.

She was brief and very direct.

She said she had heard of my escape, and then the rumors that I was the one who had slain Danarius. She had a persistent feeling that I was still alive but was resigned to the idea that there would be no way to confirm it. Then came my letter, delivered by a messenger waiting at her workshop door.

She is in good health except when the weather is damp and her joints ache. She has been working in the same tailor shop for over a decade, without Varania’s help now. Once she returned to Minrathous, my sister disappeared not long after an argument that my mother alluded to. She hasn’t heard from her since and has had no means of searching for her. She could be anywhere from Nessum to Carastes.

My mother is alone now. I want to ask her to come live with us.

The handwriting had the look of a professional scribe’s. I had half-expected her to be unlettered, and yet it disturbed me to see the evidence so plainly. She is free but still marked, and living in that festering pit where she is treated as if she were less than worthless. She is alone, and growing old, and might have no one to look after her when her joints worsen and she can’t get out of bed.

It would be hard for her, and for us, with the new baby and our uncertainty about when we will return home. But we have no way of knowing how the wars could progress. Travel over that distance and across so many borders might become perilous or impossible in the future. I believe Danra and Leliana would agree to ensure her safe passage, through their network of agents and armed scouts. The journey up the mountains to Skyhold would be too arduous. She could stay with one of their contacts nearby until we return home. We could visit her there in the meantime.

Please tell me if you have any misgivings about this.

Fenris

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

My last letter was foolishness. I should not have sent it. Disregard what I said.

I hope your journey to Val Royeaux went smoothly. Tell me, is it much like the south coast of Nevarra? [In the margin: “It occurs to me that you would have no point of comparison there. You have one half of it, and I the other.”]

I have thought lately of returning to Cumberland someday. It would be under far better circumstances than the first time I was there. I could show you and our children the places I’ve been. We could layer new memories over the old ones. That would -- it would mean a great deal to me, Hawke.

Skyhold has been quieter than usual since the party left for Halamshiral. The entire Inquisition leadership and inner circle, as well as a few dozen soldiers and scouts. I offered to step in for Josephine in her absence. She is well aware of my breadth of knowledge and experience, despite my lack of a university degree to match her own. We speak often of the books we've read or news we've heard, during meals or chess matches, when not discussing our personal lives. I am truly glad to call her my friend.

My mornings now consist of managing reports from agents while Marcus entertains himself by exploring the office. He has decided that the stacks of books on the floor are best suited to being mountains and castles for his toys. Never mind if I might need to refer to one of them now and again.

Work at the forge depends more on outside needs, such as what’s brought up from the army camp, and so my afternoons there have been little affected by the change. I’ve also begun to make things from discarded materials that would otherwise have been melted down. Nothing of much interest to others yet, except one piece that I finished recently. A round cloak pin made with twists of silverite, inlaid with glass that I’ve cut and polished to resemble amber. I can’t claim it to be as fine as what an expert would make, but it pleases me, the unadorned beauty of it. When I hold the cloak pin up to the sunlight, the beads glow a molten red-gold. Much like that necklace you wear so often.

I’ve also been spending some time in the stables. At first it was to make sure that the horseshoes I made were fitting my clients properly. Now, though, I find myself bringing a few apples from the kitchens when I visit. All the horses have been taken along to Halamshiral, except for Mikel, a gray gelding reserved for pulling the main supply cart down the mountain. Just as well. We are partial to each other’s company. He has no need for conversation as I care for his hooves and refit his shoes. And now that the other horses are gone, it seems safe to bring Marcus into the stables. I’ve taught him to brush Mikel if he promises not to pull his mane or make any sudden movements.

Otherwise, Marcus is content to sit in the yard and practice writing with chalk on his slate. I have also found his handiwork scrawled on the back of the stables. Chaotic, joyful. Accompanied by drawings. It’s an improvement from how things began not long after you left. I thought it was the right time to begin teaching him -- you know it brings me pride that he would learn at a young age. However, the lessons have progressed more slowly than I had hoped. He is easily bored with the methods that I found useful when I was learning and has been eager to explore on his own. So I have let him, once he finishes a short daily lesson. Until we find him a teacher and other children to learn with, I think it best if we let him play. Even if the results of that play are nonsense. For now.

Yours,

Fenris

 

* * *

 

[Written on cream-colored stationery scented with iris.]

Dear Fenris,

What you said wasn’t foolishness in the least. We are absolutely going to write to your mother when I get back.

All right. It’s your choice, after all. What I mean is, I really think you should.

Look, you know why this also matters to me, beyond being supportive. Maker, I would give anything to have this chance for myself, Fen, I really would, and it almost makes me angry that you would even consider not taking it. I know we’re coming at things from different places and wants and needs, and with your mother there are a whole host of considerations, as you’ve brought up. Yet here I am, reading over your letters again and feeling frustrated with you. Maybe that’s also a result of the stress that’s been wearing me down. I don’t want to take that out on you, but honestly, this would trouble me regardless.

That's me sighing right there. At you, at me, at all of this. Well, we’ve got a week to sit on our hands, and then I’ll be back and we’ll have to do something about it before the topic drives both of us mad.

Moving on. I’ve been doing my best not to get into any duels since arriving in Val Royeaux, but it’s been hard to hold myself back. Got called a mangy cow earlier this afternoon when I collided with a pack of young noblemen on a sidestreet off the Avenue of the Sun. [On the side of the page: “Was looking for a stationery shop. As you can tell, I found a very good one.”] I do look a bit rumpled after so long on the road, but really now, that was entirely uncalled for. As were the rude gestures and cackling. And that was without them knowing where I'm from and who I love. After what we've endured, it was barely anything, but somehow it nearly set me off. Would've thwacked them with my definitely-a-large-walking-stick if my sense of self-preservation hadn't spoken up.

That's lucky for me and the baby as well as for them, seeing as my staff needs repairs. The other day it made a sad fizzling sound until I tapped it against the ground a few times. Should probably make my way to the Undercroft and let Dagna take a look. Maybe she can do some extra runework on it. One more thing for the Skyhold to-do list.

We made it here without me having to open my medic pack. Traveling on a land bridge paved with stone was a considerable change from the dusty, uneven paths we’d been taking through the hills, and much safer, if more crowded at times for that very reason.

You’d think it would have been pleasant. Those rolling hills and forests turning green beneath the frost, and a wide blue sky above. But the war has spread farther than we’d heard about. We stopped looking out at the scenery after the first time we crossed over a field strewn with corpses. The stench was… it must not have been more than a few days since the battle. Alenne thought the chaos would never encroach on Arlesans, but based on what we saw near Montfort, less than a day’s ride from her village… All I could think to do was sit with her by the fire that night and rub her back in circles as Neria held her hand.

Her brothers didn’t join the Inquisition. One enlisted with Gaspard de Chalons’ army and the other stayed home to tend to the farm. There were shouting matches when those choices were made, and when she made hers. Shouting, and worse. No peace talks at the Winter Palace can repair that. If there’s anything left to repair. We've made sure she knows she can call on us now, wherever we might be in the future. At least…

I think I’ll end here, Fen. Will add to this tomorrow morning if there’s time. There’s plenty to say about Val Royeaux, but right now I just need to sit here and talk to the baby. About the family they'll meet soon, and all the small, good things waiting out here, and none of the bad, while I still have that choice. We’ve got a corner room, me and Tamar. The windows are opened wide, facing a side street, and the air smells like the bakery next door.

With love,

Hawke

 

* * *

 

Hawke,

I apologize for the abruptness of my last two letters.

I have given it much thought since I last wrote to you, amata. What I must do, and why I am struggling with it.

The shorter version, better suited to the page -- I can't claim to know my mother the way I once did, when I was Leto, and I don’t know what she expects, but any initial affection on my part would be false. I fear I will be unable to avoid causing disappointment. I might never -- this could be a disaster. I have no real knowledge of how to be anyone's son. My observations of others over the years seem paltry now. Inadequate and half-formed.

I tell myself that I can’t give those concerns undue weight, considering the possible outcomes if I do nothing. I have no wish to dwell on such things. And yet they crowd my mind late at night.

There are certain choices I've made in raising our son that I find myself regretting. I should not have brought him to the Great Hall for the magister's judgment and put us in a situation where he would be exposed to any the evils that I had meant to shield him from, beyond what he will already face here in southern lands. He barely understood what little I told him, and may have forgotten already. He's asked me no more questions about that day and what it meant. But I fear I will continue to make those mistakes, and worse ones. I fear that my mother will become ashamed of me, and that one day she will choose to return to Minrathous rather than live with us any longer.

I don't need you to say anything. I know you will tell me I am thinking myself into a corner. I suppose I just needed to say these words aloud. Or write them, at least.

I hope the sea voyage to Jader was not too unpleasant. I’m glad you've left the port of Val Royeaux and its indignities. It must have been disturbing, with that and what you've experienced in your travels. I can understand why you preferred to put down your pen and turn to the baby.

You often spoke to Marcus in a similar manner. I remember long winter nights when I heated a kettle over the fireplace at the weaver’s house in Hercinia and would hear you tell him of our day. Your sheepish smile when I returned with the hot water bottle. Your remark that you were probably being silly, and my disagreement. My hand on your belly as we drifted off to sleep. I’ve pictured you sitting by the window in Val Royeaux, murmuring to the baby about our home, with its front door painted bright blue and bundles of lavender suspended from the ceiling, and the vegetable garden curving around the side, toward the forest and the pond that fills with the croaking of frogs and the songs of crickets in the tall grass, amid the fireflies, when the year turns to summer.

There is little to say of Skyhold these days. Empty hallways and steady work, and Marcus getting away with more mischief than he should. I have been reading often, besides our son’s storybooks, to pass the time in the evenings while my usual company is absent. I am halfway through The Heir of Verchiel. I had seen a finely bound copy on the book cart last market day before we left for Skyhold, but for the same price I could buy several loaves of bread and packets of dried fruit, nuts, hard cheeses, and cured meats, as well as repairs to the soles of my boots. It was either the provisions or the book. Yet now I may read it at no cost, in a library open to the visiting public. The idea intrigues me. There should be more places like that. In a more peaceful time, perhaps.

Yours,

Fenris

 

* * *

 

  
Dear Fenris,

I was in fact seasick on the way here! Not so badly as last time, thank the Maker. I would say it was almost impressive, the amount I managed to hurl up on the way out of Wycome, but that’s probably just my mind trying to make things look rosy. Anyway, we were on a fast little ship, the kind that makes regular trips back and forth between Val Royeaux and Jader. Seemed like no time at all before we were walking down the gangplank.

It was an interesting time we had, sitting on the deck. My companions felt fine. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon for most of it, while patting Carina-Sean-Garrett as apologetically as I could, and somehow I did manage to be part of the conversation when my stomach wasn't interrupting me. Couldn’t participate in the card games, though. [Along the side of the page: “I was up ahead on my winnings in the point system we’ve devised for Wicked Grace this past month, and I thought I'd better not jeopardize that.”]

You mentioned regrets in your letter, Fen. Oddly enough, that subject came up between me and Carver, too, and rather unexpectedly.

Have I ever told you about how good Bethany was at Wicked Grace? She really was. She’d smile sweetly (wickedly!) as she scooped all your raisins and almonds into her heap of winnings, and even though you (by which I mean Carver and I) knew her better than anyone she’d still find ways to trick us, clever girl.

Carver was the one who said so, while dealing the cards. We told the others all about her. I got very close to tearing up, which didn’t make much sense at the time. It’s never easy, talking about Bethany, but you know I have a compulsion to do so when I get those strong reminders. It’s been years since I felt like I was ripping myself in half every time I did.

I found Carver at the end of the day, or he found me. I don’t know what you would call it, seeing as we crossed paths with each other on deck. I was wiping my mouth (sick, again) and he asked if I was all right, I said not really but thanks, and tried to smile before I slumped onto a pile of rope. He sat down next to me. Before I realized it, we had started talking about Bethany again, and I was saying how she should be here, and he shouldn’t be wearing that uniform, and it was all down to my poor judgment. If only I had protected him in the Deep Roads, if I hadn’t brought him along at all, if I’d made him listen to Mother and stay home rather than convinced her otherwise, out of wanting him to trust me as someone who didn’t act like a third parent, who would take his side, who didn’t want to compete, who just wanted to finally get along and not be seen as someone who was always babying him and telling him what to do and being better at everything he tried, and that self-serving choice of mine has robbed him of decades of his life and any choice of his own about what path to take. What I meant was, I'm sorry.

I had never told him any of that before. Honestly, I hadn't realized I'd been holding all that in. He stared at me. Then, after what felt like ages, he shrugged and said it wasn't really my fault, and he didn't see the point of me tormenting myself over this any longer. He said that his life is what it is, there's good and bad to being a Grey Warden, and he's not sure if he'd be any better off if things had gone differently. Probably would have joined the Templars. I made a face. He grinned. Then he became cross when I fluffed his hair for old time's sake.

He's been through so much, Fen. It's changed him, you've seen that. But to me, he'll always be my stubborn, aggravating, brave, oddly sweet brother who used to hang onto my skirts as a little boy and hold hands with Bethany so they wouldn't get separated in the Summersday crowd, and I just want him to be happy. Even though that seems nearly impossible now. It's going to be hard to let go of him when we leave Jader. I've apologized in advance for any embarrassment or bruised ribs.

That moment is coming up far too quickly. I'd better end here so I can join everyone for dinner. Before I go, can I ask you to please tell Marcus and at least a few of the people who are left at Skyhold that I’m pregnant, so that it’ll be less of a shock when I waddle through the gates next week.

One last thing. I miss you, Fenris love. Especially the quiet huff of your laugh at another of my stupid jokes, and how we can glance at each other across the room and have a silent understanding pass between us. I can’t wait until we’re home again and I can see you at the water pump out back as you rinse off after a day at the forge. You never seem to mind if your shirt gets wet or if I join you and help you remove it.

One final last thing (I'm already late for dinner). On top of war room meetings and helping the medics, I'm really looking forward to all the other everyday things we’ve missed out on these past months. Like working together in the garden with Marcus. It would make me inordinately happy if we could set aside time for that, once I've gotten my bearings. And some dancing, as well. How about this. One kiss for each time I step on your toes or bump into you with my unwieldy new body. Fair?

Love, your

Hawke

 

* * *

 

[A note written on scrap paper, folded and slipped under the infirmary door.]

Would you care to walk with me on the battlements?

I will be there later this afternoon. Near the garden.

 

* * *

 

[Another note, written on the back of the first, tacked to the door of the forge.]

See you there, love. Foot massage afterward?

 

* * *

 

[A pastel drawing of two stick-legged dragons, labeled “mummy” and “litul bee,” sits on the desk of a guest room at Skyhold. The drawing is weighted against the breeze by a small rock that wears a fresh coat of paint.]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> I've got some ideas for another story connected to this one. Let me know if there are any characters/scenarios/etc. you want to see return!


End file.
